Those Left Behind
by Cruelest Sea
Summary: Set directly after "Novus Ordo Seclorum". Ichabod returns home the first night without Abbie.


_**Those Left Behind**_

 _"We don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain"-Charles Bukowski_

He delays going to the house as long as possible. It isn't difficult to find excuses - ensuring Jenny and Joe are treated at the hospital, all while sidestepping a nurse who keeps trying to examine the rib he suspects is cracked; and after that, tearing through the pages in the Archives to find something, anything to bring Abbie back.

But ultimately there's nothing and no more excuses, and he's forced to go to the house, unlock the door, and step inside.

It's dark and he switches on the light with a hand faintly trembling, blinking owlishly as the light rushes through and out of the corners, exposing every empty space, every inch she is not.

It's the silence that hits him first, almost deafening quiet. He'd learned early on that Abbie craved noise like some people crave cigarettes to calm themselves, a background of sound to distract and underscore her thoughts. The house was never silent with Abbie there, with music drifting from an iPod, or the television running a dim replay of _The Patriot_ as she laughs at his outrage and scoffing at historical inaccuracies and artistic license.

He'd never understood her need for sound - birdsong was the only background noise for most of his life - but he thinks he understand now, how silence can steal inside a person and choke them slowly until they can't breathe around their own thoughts and memories.

He switches the light off.

He crosses the room in three strides, sinks to the sofa as if his legs are too weak to hold him up. His hand brushes the lap robe she'd worn yesterday and he lifts it, almost reverently, bringing it to his nose and breathing it in.

It smells like Abbie, warm and comfortable, and he buries his face in it, both arms wrapped around it and folded across his chest. He aches, in a way that has little to do with the bones surrounding his heart being out of place and scraping broken edges together, and far more to do with the organ itself.

He's alone, lost in this world, a single half of a whole, but he doesn't long for the past, for old friends long dead, for a world that he understands so much better than this one, he wants _her_ , _her_ and nothing else.

He falls asleep, finally, exhaustion overcoming pain and sorrow, deep and dreamless.

A knock at the door wakes him. He gets up stiffly, one hand going to support his side as he fumbles with the lock, opening the door partway. Joe gives him a sharp appraisal, enough to tell him that he looks as ill as he feels, with his clothes rumpled and slept in, hair disheveled, and beard untrimmed. It's late afternoon by the light and Joe looks only slightly better than he does, obviously having slept at the hospital, and still bearing the purple fingermarks down the sides of his neck.

"How does Miss Jenny fare?" His voice is thick, hoarse even to his own ears.

"Better." Joe's eyes flicker, following his arm to the hand still clenched to his rib, and he makes an effort to lower it slowly, betrayed when his breath hisses through his teeth at the sudden loss of support.

"Hey." Joe reaches, taking his arm and guiding him toward the nearest chair. "Let me take a look at that."

He doesn't move, suppressing the flinch as Joe tugs his shirt up and frowns at the mottled bruising creeping up his side. "Come on. I'll get you to the hospital."

"No." The word comes out sharp and Joe blinks. "No." He softens the words. _"Please."_

Joe looks at him hard for a long moment. Then he nods slowly, ducking out of the room long enough to retrieve a first aid kit. Neither speaks as he tapes his ribs, poking here and there to ensure that shards aren't likely to pierce lungs or anything else vital, and finally seemingly satisfied enough to close the kit.

He leaves the room again, with some beeping and other sounds, before returning with two cups of soup and a spoon for each.

Ichabod isn't hungry but he takes it, swirling the spoon around for long enough that Joe clears his throat and looks pointedly at it until he lifts a spoonful to his mouth and swallows.

Somewhere around the third sip Joe starts talking, the sort of one-sided conversation one might carry on with someone in a coma or asleep, not requesting a reply. Background noise. Ichabod's eyes close, open slowly. Time passes. He takes another swallow, letting the words blur together, barely listening until Joe says something about "..too late to drive back", and settles back into the chair, resting his head against the back.

It's a kindness, Ichabod realizes, with the slow understanding of friendship, of two people who understand loss and what it is to nearly lose, to be alone. He lays the cup down, gets to his feet and walks slowly to the sofa, pulling the blanket up again, breathing in a mix of his own scent and Abbie's, fainter now than before.

"I should have spoken to her." He says softly, almost out of hearing range, nearly without meaning to speak. "I should have told her.." His voice breaks, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as his shoulders start to tremble.

The chair squeaks as Joe shifts position. He can't make out his face in the dim light but its enough that he's there, that someone is there.

"You still can." Joe's voice is gentle but determined. "We'll get her back."

He doesn't reply. The clock ticks, faint in the quiet room, and first Joe's and then his breathing evens out, slipping into sleep.

He dreams of Abbie.


End file.
